Defending the Defeated
by Theraxs
Summary: I warned them not to mistake my assistance for acceptance. But now it's far too late. The great threat of Alduin is over, but the fate of Skyrim is still precarious, to be determined by blood and steel and the voice of ages past. My role is not yet over in this grand story. I have much to atone for, and if I am to die in order to bring down the one responsible, then so be it.


Dovakhiin Profile

**Name: **_Fayowen_

**Gender: **_Female_

** Race: **_Khajiit_

** Physical Description:** _Wiry thin, black fur with some white streaks along face, several scars on face and hands, one ear pierced with three interlocked copper rings_

** Class:** _Weaponmaster/Assassin blend_; can hold her own in a straight up fight and often excels at this, but her race's natural stealth allows her alternative methods to kill or incapacitate an enemy. Has terrible magic skills (seriously, she can barely use _Flames_ to light her campfires) and doesn't like ranged weaponry.

** Morality:** _Lawful Neutral:_ she will try and help others as much as she can, but her main goal is her own safety and progression. While she won't kill an innocent to get what she wants, she isn't above leaving them to die either. Doesn't like clashing with authority.

**Misc.: **_While she is a khajiit, her accent is hardly noticeable due to very little interaction with her own kind while growing up. Likes fighting better than most anything else, even going so far as to pick fistfights at taverns, which confuses most people since they believe all khajiit to be sneaky and treacherous. She doesn't lie very often, and when she does she's terrible at it. Preferred fighting style is duel wielding, though passably experienced with two-handed weapons and shield use. Can't stand the taste of mead. Enjoys reading when she can find a good book. Prays to Akatosh._

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_Six months after the defeat of Alduin…_

Sound travels in funny ways inside a dungeon; the deeper down you are, the farther sounds seem to travel from the top. Mayhaps this is because of my acute ears, though I've spoken on the matter with fellow imprisoned before and they tend to agree. It is just one of the ways the life of a prisoner is so tantalizingly tortuous: given some semblance of connection with the outside world, only to have it taken away as soon as the source of the sound departs. It is the sounds that break some down here, despite what might be believed.

As I am, being part of the world beyond the iron bars and guard patrols is the least of my desires. As a matter of fact, it is the greatest of dangers to me right now. Should I suddenly be stricken from these restraints and given free leave to walk unhindered through the dungeons main door, I would likely be killed in mere moments. Prison was my only sanctuary. It is this kind of ironic scenario that a friend of mine would greatly enjoy, my expense just an added bonus.

My time among the Thieves Guild gives me a distinct advantage over my imprisoned peers in normal circumstances in that prisons and dungeons are only temporary inconveniences to me, just rest stops in between long hauls across the expansive tundra of Skyrim. But Akatosh's divine blessing, the sun, has dawned on a different circumstance for the acting Guild Leader of the Thieves of Riverrun.

A thick wooden yoke is clamped around my neck and shoulders, my head and wrists pinned in the switch-back covered holes, the recently added iron fastenings making it far to sturdy to bust apart by any means available to me. But I couldn't move to hammer against the walls in any event, seeing as both my arms and my legs had been encased in tourniquets of wooden planks, absolutely restricting movement of any kind. Thin chains encircled all of my limbs thickly and tightly before latching into hooks on either side of the empty cell, meaning that I couldn't hobble to one side without pulling one set of chains taught before I had gone nary a few inches. I had been stuck standing up for the last several days, finding that sleep was possible with the added suspension but everything would ache anew upon rousing from whatever nightmares plagued me that night.

Most prudently of my jailors, however, had been in deliberately gagging me. Two bits of leather, tasting strongly of dirt, had been wedged both above and below my tongue before my mouth had been covered with a metal contraption that saddled my face and held my jaw firmly shut, impossible for me to do anything beyond swallowing, and that was a task in and of itself. It was, to be honest, a perfect confinement for one such as myself, for one who could wield the ancient and unknowable power of _the voice_. I suppose they had learned from the mistakes made in the past about Thu'um users, and how to stop their words of power.

The only things that was free to move were my tail and my eyes. One was useless in this situation, while the other was absolutely imperative. I had been watching vigilantly for any clues that might aid me when I needed them, observing the scant few guards that still patrolled the lonely pit of Solitude dungeon. With myself there, all of the other prisoners had been relocated to some other place, leaving me the only one they had to watch. After all, the Dragonborn was a greater threat than all of the purse cutters and horse thieves in Haafinger put together, if I do say so myself.

At the moment, it was around three in the afternoon, a time when most are at their work places or keeping households. My few guards are bored by this point, as they are everyday with very little deviation. The three of them are sitting at the top level of the prison, eating bread and cheese to whittle away their post lunch hunger, talking amongst each other as they did so. They knew full well that I wouldn't be going anywhere, so why waste the whole day watching a 'caged kitty'. I can hear them clear as day from down here in the lowest pit.

"Not that I can argue," one of them was saying; faintly apologetic for whatever he had just said. "I don't mind gaining a few septims here and there from those I fight, and I've even taken a sword or two to sell to the blacksmith."

"It's your given right, man," a second one spoke, clearly trying to convince the first on the matter of body looting. "You are the victor, so you get your pick of spoils. See this?" A pause, and then a few murmured acknowledgments even I couldn't pick up at this distance. "I found this on a bandit that was out roving the roads by Steed Stone alter. I was on horseback and just swiped him across the face and that was that. He had this on him so I decided that it would look better on me than for a corpse."

Whatever bauble the nord was bragging about apparently didn't seem to intrigue his two brethren.

"You killed a man and then only took that?" The third of their group spoke up, deeper voice suggesting a more southward birthplace than the other two. "Why not take his arms and armor? Surely a bandit would have such things and they would be far more useful than a trinket."

This was one of two pragmatists in the guard roster, and the one that didn't take to spitting through the grill at the roof of my cell whenever he passed by, though he made up for it by conveniently forgetting to grant me the one chance I had everyday to relieve my bladder. I only had water to nourish me these days, dribbled in through a slat on the mouth of my head restraint, the droplets seeping past my lips and over the leather pieces. It was enough for the time being, but I knew that they were probably waiting for me to be too weak from hunger to resist before attempting to move or otherwise deal with me.

"Sure he had weapons, but they were that terrible Falkreath make, and I have no need for a sword that might break at the shaft if I used it. And his armor smelt of horse piss."

"You're too picky for the life of a guard," the first one spoke again. I haven't learned any of their names yet, but I can recognize most of them by their voice alone. "When I was a recruit in the army, we had to make do with absolute garbage for equipment. After Helgen, there was a shortage in supplies and we had to scrounge among the locals for what we needed."

"Well you make it sound like it was all a beggar's life for us soldiers. I seem to recall a warm fort that we took over and lived like Jarls for a week before moving on."

"What do you mean 'you took over'? I don't remember hearing of any such victory."

"He means that **she** cleared it out for us." The pronoun was spat out like extracted poison, leaving no doubt that he was referring to me. Indeed, I had done quite a bit of encampment clearing work during the war. But looking at it all now, all of the needless deaths and destruction, I can only see the faces of the men I cut down. If things had been different, if I had seen clearly then as I do now, would I have instead been defending the wall alongside them instead of storming it? So many regrets to go hold, so many mistakes to relive continuously. But the reason for my imprisonment remains one of the few good things I've yet done in my life, and I will stand by my decision to the end, whether that is in freedom or knelt over the headsman's block.

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In Skingrad, there was no such thing as high living. You either housed in one of the clustered buildings along the main road or waterway, or else you spent your nights in the streets and alleys, clawing at any chance for food that you could get. Pestilence was a very real danger during the sweltering summers, the nearby swamps overabundant with ravenous insects and invisible viruses.

Fortunately, it was during one of the better seasons when Charlaniece Toltrainn and her father, Lord Toltrainn, rode into town on their modest chestnut bays. The air was clear for a change and the sounds of life were that of a small town conducting business rather that the pained coughing of the illness stricken and the violent fights of the desperate. The Tolltrainns had been invited to attend the wedding of Skingrad's off-residence and infamously greedy Lord Robertson Panche to a frightened looking girl barely out of her blossom years.

The fat and sweaty man had called for Sigmund Tolltrain's presence as an honored guest, really just wishing to pander up to the higher lords in hopes of establishing connections and further deepening his hold over the lands under him and beyond. But Panche was a loud-mouthed buffoon who only stopped eating and drinking to shower the rich with flowery complements (and not to mention whatever had been in his mouth a few seconds before). It was a tactless approach and the only reason he still held any power at all was because lordship over Skingrad had been passed down through his family for decades.

Sigmund regretted bringing Charlaniece to such a gaudy occasion, but she needed to experience the kind of outings that she would be forced to attend when she was Lady of their house and he could no longer protect her. Already getting on in years with mostly grey in his close-cropped hair and slender beard, he had been as surprised as his wife had been when they somehow conceived their first and only child. Unfortunately, Lady Tolltrainn had not survived the delivery, but that made Charlaniece all the more precious to the retired warrior, bearing the cream colored skin and silky golden hair that her mother had been so famous for in her youth. He didn't want to die as well and leave her without any way of supporting herself.

So he had been bringing her to most of the official gatherings and meetings he was summoned to, mostly in their home of Cyrodil though occasionally venturing to other bordering provinves, once even to High Rock by way of sea ships. He had also hired a governess to instruct Charlaniece on the fine etiquette of being a lady, and a private teacher to ensure that she was very well equipped to handle all of the intellectual challenges Tamriel had to offer. Already she was coming along very well, and only still just six years of age. It was reason for Sigmund to beam with pride in those private moments when he managed to disentangle himself from the political workload thrust upon him and look in on his daughter as she read aloud from a yellowed tome, enunciating the words carefully under the watchful eyes of madame Khalith, the bosmer governess.

After she had asked why she was always stuck in a carriage when they went anywhere outside walking distance from their large house, Sigmund had started to teach her to ride a horse by herself. He had decided not to use a pony because this way would make her used to the size and weight of a horse early on, and he didn't want her to ride anything that could be outran by anything a bandit marauder rode. Call it soldier's paranoia.

But the one thing he refused to let her learn was how to fight. He was adamant on the point that the largest blade she would ever lift in her life would be used to cut her meals. He had seen too many good men and woman fall in combat for him to be at all comfortable with the idea of his darling girl engaged in battle. For that, he made sure that there were always guards about the house and an armed escort whenever they traveled.

That day, in the already kicked up main street of Skingrad, three men in medium plate armor followed the two imperials atop horses of their own, two stallions and a bronco that looked better at the fore of some great charge than tailing two dignitaries on their way home. They looked lax in their saddles, but he recognized the attentiveness in their eyes and the hands that never left the pommel of their swords. These were good men, recommended by Tolltrainn family friend Shivvar Oreulious, and that was quite something in itself.

But today, as almost everyday before it had been, there was no apparent need for their skills. Perhaps it was that their mere presence made potential muggers shy away to look for a more vulnerable mark, but that meant daily tedium for the men used to open battlefields with the yell of your opponent ringing in your ears and the vibrations of every sword swing running up your arm.

Sigmund knew exactly how they felt: some days, he would look at the mound of scrolls and paper on his desk and yearn for the long gone time wherein he rode confidently into battle atop a magnificent charger and the strength he had as a youth was all he needed to rely upon. But that chapter in his life was closed for good, whether he liked it or not, and he had a duty to his ancestral title to uphold for the remainder of his days, though he would never truly stop being a warrior at heart.

A scream brought him from his nostalgic reverie, causing both he and his men to jerk their heads about in every direction to spot the source of such a violent and pained sound. But it was Charlaniece who saw it first, shouting out wordlessly and pointing down an ally that was in shadow from the looming buildings on either side. Sigmund followed his daughter's outstretched finger and felt his stomach curdle at what he saw: four people dressed in tightly fitting red and black outfits had chased down a woman into a corner and were now slashing into her with long, wicked looking daggers, blood already glistening in what little light there was while she tried to huddle protectively around something in her arms even as she was mauled by steel.

Without conscious thought, the Tolltrainn patriarch reared his bay about and dug his heels into the flank of his steed, launching them toward the attack as he drew the simple longsword from its sheath at his waist and held it at the ready above his head with one hand while the other steered the reigns. Behind him, he could hear the calls and matching hoof beats as the escort followed on his heels, drawing their own weapons. They crossed the distance in seconds, but in that brief span of time, all four of the mysterious assailants had heard their approach and turned to face them, blades positioned defensively.

Sigmund reached them first, arcing his blade down through the air and towards the nearest opponent. But his blade met nothing but air, the hooded being apparently vanishing right before his eyes. All at once, before he could try and look around for the attacker, his bay shrieked in agony, flailing violently up and to the side, consequently tumbling onto its back with Sigmund stuck in his saddle and losing his grip on the sword. Miraculously, he wasn't crushed or even harmed by the fall, but the wind was knocked from him and his horse didn't move again, already dead from lightning fast stab that had taken it through the heart.

Pinned and missing his only form of defense, Sigmund looked up over the body of his horse as the same attacker he had aimed at loomed into view, another dagger clenched in his other hand and dripping with what was undoubtedly the blood from the beast. Without preamble, the figure drove both blades downward to pierce him in the chest and end him just like his mount.

Salvation came not a second too soon as the escort caught up with him and one of them swung a flanged mace into the shoulder of Sigmund's would-be killer. Yelping in pain, the anonymous attacker stumbled to the side and tripped over the neck of the killed animal. Grunting with exertion, Sigmund managed to pull his leg free and staggered to his feet. He could see that his three men were engaging the equally numbered mystery opponents, wisely dropping from their own horses before they became a liability in the confined space and fighting on foot where they could more effectively use their shields or, in the case of the single orc, their warhammer.

Wrenching his gaze from the furious melee, he saw that the fourth attacker was trying to get to his feet, struggling with what was no doubt a broken or dislocated shoulder. Not wishing for the hooded assailant to get another chance, Sigmund tackled the figure, fully feeling both his years and the coursing battle adrenaline taking over for where age had lost its edge. Sent sprawling by the force behind the slam, the two of them grappled in the dry dirt, trying to get a firm hold on the other while also trying to prevent the same thing. Sigmund had the advantage of height, having landed on top of the attacker, but the dagger wielder was stronger than him and faster.

Eventually, the hooded person managed to land a punch in Sigmund's eye, stunning him for just that vital second it took for the roles to be reversed and he found the assailant sitting on his chest, spider like fingers wrapped around his throat and crushing the passage of air to nothing. Gaping like a beached fish, Sigmund tried to grope the face behind the leather mask, to get a handhold, but his opponent completely ignored his attempts and just strangled all the harder, his injured shoulder seemingly forgotten. Acting instinctively again, the dignitary threw his hands out in search of a weapon, anything he could use to free himself.

But his fingers scratched nothing but earth, and his men were too occupied to safely help him. Seeing most of his vision blurring with splotches of darkness, Sigmund desperately reached for his belt, finding the attacker's instead. His cold digits passed over something round and he didn't hesitate to rip it clear off from the leather thong attaching it to the belt and smash it into the face of the killer. Despite being almost entirely covered behind the mask he wore, certain parts of the face were still exposed to the sudden shower of broken glass and strongly acidic poison, most notably the eyes.

The scream that rose up from the attacker was horrifying, making Sigmund's skin crawl as he coughed and gasped for breath, having been released the second the phial had been shattered. As he watched, steam spewed from the facemask the attacker wore as the flesh beneath was eaten away, the frenzied attempts to remove the mask thwarted by fingers that were also disintegrating in no time at all due to contact with the residue. The other six fighters all ceased their clashes for just a heartbeat to view the monstrous death taking place before them before returning to their separate duels. But with one of their own taken out, the mysterious assailants seemed to unanimously decide that the favor was not in their favor and began to back off towards the opposite end of the alley. Before long, they disengaged the escort and took off running towards the bordering wilderness, hopelessly out pacing the armored warriors.

Sigmund looked away from the now mute figure as it spasmed in unimaginable pain, casting his blurry vision back out the way they had come. Over a dozen citizens were amassed at the mouth of the alley, looking in with curiosity and horror. Beyond them, at the opposite end of the street where he had left her, Charlaniece waited anxiously atop her horse, obeying his directions. He had told her many times when he had started to teach her how to ride that if he and the other men should suddenly leave her for any reason, she was to remain in the same spot if it was public enough or move to somewhere that had more people around to passively protect her.

Gratified to see that his teachings hadn't been for naught, he beckoned her over, still too weak from the near death and the earlier fall to walk all the way to her. She whistled at her horse as she urged it on into a canter towards her father, worry showing clearly in her innocent features. Looking back one more time, Sigmund was relieved to see that the thrashing of the attacker had finally stopped, signaling a permanent end to that horrible fate.

"Father, are you alright?" Charlaniece asked hurriedly, climbing down from her horse to grab his hand and hold it tightly, hoping that it would help him in only the way that a little child could hope.

"Yes, yes I'm alright," he affirmed, smiling shakily at her and not completely succeeding in placating her fear. Her eyes shifted from his to the smoking body behind him, grimacing deeply but stopping short of actually saying anything; strong and smart, just like her mother. But then she looked even further past him and gasped loudly. Whirling around and expecting the worst, Sigmund instead saw that the woman who had been the original target of those blades was still where she had fallen. Furious with himself for forgetting about her so easily, he hastened to her side, ignoring the stench of burnt skin and jumping over both the body of the fallen attacker and his horse.

Crouched next to the woman, he was relieved to see that she yet drew breath, albeit raggedly and wetly, clear indication that blood was in her lungs and she was not long for this world. She was a dark skinned redguard, covered in dirtied rags and looking to be in her fifties, though the creased worry lines made it difficult to tell. A fair sized bundle of cloth was still clutched in her arms, the blood from her various wounds dotting the brown material.

"M'lady? M'lady?" Gingerly, he touched her face to see if she was even still conscious. Her eyes fluttered open and a bout of heaving coughs wracked her body for several long seconds before she could properly look up at him.

"My life ends, but my mission does not," she murmured, voice barely a whisper. Sigmund felt Charlaniece draw up behind him behind him, silent and waiting to see if here was anything she could do, not realizing the severity of the knife slashes or the internal damage. "Please, you must take up where I left off, you must-" more coughing, these bringing a spattering of pink blood up onto her chin. "There must be a guardian until the time is…the time is right…" Every breath was fought for now, the precipice of death only being held back by the daunting will of the woman. With a surprising burst of strength, she reached forward and grabbed a fistful of his tunic and pulled Sigmund's ear close to her mouth. It was there that she spoke her last, whispered words imparted as clearly as possible to the lord.

With everything as it should be, the redguard released her hold on him as her head lolled back without life to support it any longer, her eyes half closed and a content smile still on her lips. Sigmund looked down at her as his daughter wept openly, fat tears straining through the coating of dust on her angular face. The three men of his escort returned from their short lived chase, all of them unharmed save for bruised knuckles and the occasional shallow gash. They saw their charges kneeling by the depleted body and respectfully kept their silence, instead moving over to the killed attacker.

Sigmund carefully scooped the bundle of clothes into his arms and held it close to his chest. As he did so, some of the woman's own rags were moved and he saw the glint of polished metal beneath. With one hand still holding the bundle, he removed more of the coverings and revealed an intricately detailed cuirass over a faded crimson tunic, the miniscule silverwork depicting, of all things, dragons. To see such fine material on someone passing as a beggar was surprising, and more than a little worrying when coupled with what she had told him.

'Sir! We found something." One of the guards called to him from where they were sifting through the belongings of the assailant not touched by the acid. Giving one last look to the mysterious woman warrior, Sigmund rose smoothly to his feet, taking Charlaniece's hand in one of his own while still cradling the precious bundle against his body. Together, they walked over to the men, staying at just enough of a distance that the smell wasn't unbearable for the little girl.

"What is it?" He asked wearily, the adrenaline just about gone from his veins and leaving him a little older than he had been five minutes before.

In answer, the man who had spoken held out a piece of parchment, folded once in half lengthwise. Nudging Charlaniece slightly to silently instruct her, she accepted the note and opened it up for both of them to view the contents. Instead of writing, or even a drawn picture, there was only a single handprint of black ink in the middle of the page. It didn't say anything at all, but Sigmund felt apprehension tighten his insides as though another scream had just rung out, recognizing the print only as a very bad omen.

"Come, we're leaving." His voice was stronger than he felt, steadier too. The three men quickly reclaimed their horses and mounted up. Sigmund swung onto Charlaniece's bay carefully with one arm, letting the girl climb up next and settle into the saddle behind him before passing the bundle off to her. She instinctively held it securely like he had, looking at it with unabashed puzzlement.

"What is it?" She inquired softly over the sound of their horses beating a hasty exit from the alleyway and down the street toward the main road. With trembling fingers, she began to part the cloth rags as reverently as she had seen been done on the woman wearing that strange armor.

"Fayowen," Sigmund breathed out as his daughter pulled away the last strip of cloth to uncover the obsidian furred khajiit baby nestled deep inside and staring up at Charlaniece with big green eyes, "she told me that her name is Fayowen."

**AN:** _And that is how it starts. The very first steps of the woman that would one day be know as "Dragonborn, Hero of Skyrim" and slay an immortal threat. But what is the cause of her imprisonment in present times, and what have the ramifications of her participation in the Skyrim Civil War brought about?_

_ You will get the answers in due time, for nothing worth knowing has ever been rushed. The chronicle of the Dovakhiin has only just begun, and there are still many, many more chapter to tell._

_Aaz Aak Daar Hun. Ek Dez Haalvut Pah Laas_


End file.
